get you ready for a day of bruises
play it on a horse’s trusses
the sickling sun bears fruits
too late to tie long sighs
for all the accidents of yesterdays
forging signs beholding fingers, pinked
lipped testing on faces, where you
are, all fending for signs & lines
buses, blue and buses, yellow, and
ginsberg hair and wordsworth hollow
girled sister plucked daffodils of
deceit — plight flight of a sick-
ening write, eyes talked shit when
protests can’t go for masked fellows
and masked fools and masked thins
and masked fats – never in-between,
never middle but also, never new,
never shine, never honest, never here,
never.
never circular, but always middle.
never empowered, but also only
always occupied. and Occupy.
and moved, not moving.
get ready to receive the masses,
you are not the masses, you are
mass – mostly, most, only mass.
ass.

marry, not so long ago
with a little tiny marshmellow
from the edge of borneo,
soft as feathered pillow;
then bore four children
of which to sing bad tunes to–

well, it’s okay, the all-mighty will say,
life is not all romance and dance,
life is not all beds and roses;
so you go, workwork all day
so you go, nightdrink the witch’s brew
sometimes, if marshmellow doesn’t notice,
(but she always knew)
up until two–

well, it’s okay, the all-mighty will say,
“if you take a cat and swing it by it’s tail,
pray to God, (or am i god? he says),
hopefully it won’t wail”
and
so you go, tennis in the evenings
so you go, chapatis even in the mornings
and
sometimes, if marshmellow doesn’t know,
you drive to the flea market before work,
your own guilty-shopping,
to find leafs of beautiful words–

marry, so long ago
with now a (not-so-tiny) marshmellow
(but not so tiny yourself)
then bore four children
of which to dance bad steps to–

well, it’s okay,
you can do that, your children (try not to laugh and) say,…
“because you’re the father, anyway”!

now i don’t know if this is right, but it’s as though… it’s like feeling like a kid again. then again, i’m not exactly much older either. (but what is all this thing about age? what’s in an age? a person with any other age, would be just as stupid, sometimes).. it’s the thought and the presence of wanting to be around someone and be someone. someone that is, ultimately, yourself at the end of the day.. perfectionism? i haven’t done it, and i will never want to achieve it. happiness? at times it can be over-rated, especially the “negative happiness” that ghazali talked about. what am i looking for in this life, at this moment in time that will tell my future self that “this is it. you’re here.”? there are so many books to read, so many people to meet, so many things to like and dislike.. i remember one of my favourite scenes in 7 pounds is when emily says, “i want to know what it feels like to run”. for me, i want to know what it feels like to run, swim, move, be in motion and just feeling my body in the wind.. but i don’t do that. i don’t engage in drowning myself in this over-achieving, who can be stronger, faster, thinner, better, healthier world. it’s great to feel good in a dress, but even when i die, i won’t even have my skin, or flesh, or bones to dress my soul. my sister said that i don’t have to prove anything to anyone.. not even to myself. then, i wonder now, “what is there left?”. i guess, what’s left is when at the end of the day, before you take your last long breath, you decide. from the sins and sad stories that you’ve collected your bones in,… you can always climb out of it. especially since, and maybe even einstein would agree, that we all live for eternity. no need no potions or lotions. just you, and me.

touch, a lovely heart broken to another thought
of climbing upon hopes and idealistic dreams where
players they play their politics in their clandestine teams;
life, is but a stage, says shakespeare and machiavelli would cease to wonder
of dolls and dresses and make-up your messes
of books and lies and many, many old time flies calling out
to the moon and starry morning run of another week day-out;
hold on! to another note of dance, turning and upside loops of many a legs
where she’s telling me to think it through
he’s telling me no one’s good enough for you
they’re holding on, living a life a-grand-e and everyone seems
to have they’re own set of shitty plans;

if life is going to turn out wrong or right,
the music shall still be played by negotiating of no-nonsense of afools
who tell you,
no one’s ever going to love you.

which is true..
you’ve got only your soul,
at the last minutes, before you drift into your soles of a dream of
your feet of your lean…

one week and counting, his arm then
brushes against mine; that i want to
hold him close and never let the soul go,
body, can fade into nonexistence, i say,
but just give me his life

selfish?, i’m not, take time to touch the heat of
the pot on a sunday afternoon, wishing i could wait,
but i’m really waiting for myself to burn this blue moon away
and like the sounds of the night, sore in the mouth
from too much of a-saying, and too much eyes to bawl and crawl,
yes, she tells me with care, closing off everything, and my hair..

enough, with these broken hearts: this heart, at least, this one says:,
enough, i’ve had too much to contemplate and many a-times i thought of being late
just for the sake of crying myself thin into a mold of a partisan stick;
marx would’ve held me tight and cried like an idealist;
che would’ve told me to buck-up and keep on running;
my father would tell me ‘what’s the problem?’, wait and see—
and this girl would say, take your runner’s breath… lay down your weary head, so oh, she said:
dance to the tune that is stuck in your head of sleeping too early, and waking up too soon

one week and be-musing, do my ties go,
he says he loves me, but
how can i believe him when he’s new
but i’m feeling so old and deep does my soul fall,
but, i say, just give me his life…
give

it’s that candle that he holds; it
melts part of my thumb onto his lips
that sing of soulful things where i
wonder what went wrong when he wanted all–
my eyes, my face, my hair, my smile; so he says
we’re like toes dancing in a stream of
fishes laughing at everything and
his laugh is like shiney sun slipping through and
the words he used; they break me up, they turn me around
inside and upside, my skin, turns blue;
i’m suffocating this imagination and this dream
is blowing out the ring, that he gave me and he said
he wanted so much more and that so much was there,
on a weekend, lazy stare…

i’m dreaming about the run, dash-ed across your garden
or forest, of hopeful laces cornered at the tongue of the woods
creeping by i want another dance from you
in my dreams to tell me something that
is more that it seems -i want it to be is